Elsewhere: CB
by Zabbie Q
Summary: [Original London inspired] After "The Rap" C.B. is glad that Rusty is in the final instead of the French TGV - because that means his master plan has a chance at working.


Although many fans like to refer to the train yard as "the Apollo Victoria yard" or "the AV," I personally don't. Nobody can tell me who was the first fan to come up with the idea, and so I can't credit them for it. (I once had 9 chapters of a 15 chapter fic stolen and posted on Wattpad before I stopped the plagiarist. As I don't like having my ideas used without getting credit, I try not to inflict that upon other people, even if that "AV yard" person probably isn't online anymore.) That's why I choose to refer to the setting as Wilton Yard (which is actually the street that the Apollo Victoria Theatre is on).

* * *

 _Sometimes things just fall into your lap_ , _don't it?_ thought C.B. the red caboose as he rode behind Dustin the big hopper, who in turn clung to the couplers of Poppa McCoy the steam engine.

Moments before Wilton Yard's racing crowd had been in a true rap over the fate of the final championship race, arguing whether a proven French TGV or a rusted steam engine should have the remaining available spot. Now with the matter settled and the finalists leaving to prepare, everyone had dispersed and had gone off into the night — and C.B. was yet one step further in his plans.

C.B. turned his attention to the rails ahead as Poppa pulled the two freight trucks down a little used line that led to the uphill race track. There were less lampposts here to guide them, obliging the steamer to turn on the feeble light on his iron hat. The March night wind picked up, pleasantly tickling the caboose's mustache. C.B. pushed back his wooden baseball cap to allow the breeze to cool his damp brown hair, and he almost whistled cheerfully before he remembered where he was. Even though the steamer and the hopper had their own cause for celebration, right now the best course was not to draw too much attention to himself — witnesses could be troublesome if they remembered some incriminating details that a mastermind had thought they would overlook.

C.B. easily plastered a polite, cheerful grin across his light face, which belied a youth he hadn't known for many a summer. To an outsider, he was just that helpful, friendly caboose who spoke in radio slang, the one who had been born a wooden boxcar and had gone through a conversion when his original company had purchased bigger, bulkier trucks to replace him. He had been a short man even when goods wagons were smaller, but the caboose cupola contained in his red baseball cap had given him enough height for a human conductor to monitor his freight train. Anyone who saw him then would have thought he was enjoying an evening ride with one of his coworkers and the grandfatherly steamer who napped on the sidings. Little would they know...

"I'm glad Rusty can race," Dustin suddenly said in front of the red truck. His high voice remained thick with whatever strand of a Cockney accent he still retained even after decades working in the Mountain West states. "That Greaseball had no right to say he couldn't — or any of them," he added with more fire than his gentle demeanor usually possessed.

Although larger than most trucks (and some engines), the covered hopper was scared of his shadows sometimes, but when it came to his friends in distress, he could transform into a bulldog.

Ahead the elderly steamer grunted. "After nearly killing myself in that third heat, I got the right to say who can take my place in the final."

"That's a big Ten-Four," agreed C.B. dutifully.

He was glad he was at the back of the short train because otherwise Poppa or Dustin would have seen the satisfied smirk that stretched beneath his brown mustache. That morning he had woken up with a simple plan: cause an accident that would require the national champions to need new partners, use his solid rapport with Control to volunteer as a replacement car and ingratiate himself with a fast racer, and then crash said racer, allowing his diesel cohort, Greaseball, to win the championship for yet another year and continue providing C.B. the best mechanical and refurbishing services that Greaseball could weasel out of Control. Up until the first elimination heat, the plan had gone accordingly — C.B. had wiped out all six of the foreign car partners in a tunnel accident and had even sent his unlucky racer, Hashamoto the Japanese bullet train, spinning straight over a hill — but now things had changed. Tactics had been altered, and even with this unexpected need for improvisation, C.B. inched ever closer to his new goal.

Get rid of Greaseball the diesel.

All he needed now was a young rusted steamer to make it all happen.

The sound of a clearing throat drew him back to earth, and he realized that Poppa McCoy had slowed down. Dustin helpfully unhitched, and C.B. followed suit as the locomotive sat down upon a low stone wall, fanning his russet face with his hand. Considering that mere minutes ago he had been half-dead and struggling to relight his coal, he was due for a breather.

 _Well, the old goat did run a race with a cold boiler and a heavy hopper_ , C.B. thought, not without admiration.

Poppa took a few deep breaths, leaning an elbow against one knee. A few pieces of coal fell out of the tender on his back, but he made no move to grab them.

 _The old rogue has certainly seen better days_ , C.B. thought as he took in the wrinkles and the faded brown paint on his metal overalls.

It was almost strange to think that the caboose and the steamer had been neighbors in the old days. Although Ramblin' Jim McCoy had pulled passenger trains in his youth, he had married a goods van and had settled down in a comfortable shed down the track from C.B.'s. Back then McCoy had been the rising star of the race track, who had set coaches swooning and graced the front pages of newspapers across the country. Now, he was a retired relic with dentures and a paltry bit of shelter which he shared with his only remaining son, Rusty, while C.B. still worked and could pass for a young man even with his wooden panels and the sealed sliding door on his chest.

The steamer looked up finally and gave C.B. a grateful grin. "Thanks for offering to race with Rusty, Ceeb," he said. "He had such trouble finding a new coach after little Pearl found another friend."

"I'd be a _crummy_ godfather if I didn't," returned C.B. with a cheerful wink, making a pun on one of the many slang terms for a caboose. "Bet his mother is proud up there," he added, laying his feigned compassion on thick as he pointed toward what stars were visible above.

Predictably, Poppa nodded, and his gaze lowered. "Vanessa woulda loved to see this."

C.B. wagged a finger at the steamer. "But she probably wouldn't be too keen to see you tonight. You can't be rushing into races at your age, Jim Watt McCoy."

Poppa's eyes grew hard. "After that electric train stole Rusty's spot in the second heat, what else could I do?" he all but growled.

C.B. nodded, adopting a look of understanding. "Well, the red caboose can do the rest for your boy."

Dustin made a soft cough, politely drawing their attention. He had settled down on the ground with his back against the stone wall, and despite his huge size, his dark gray paint and silence had made it easy for him to escape notice.

"Do you think Rusty will race with you, C.B.?" he asked, rubbing a dusty hand against his white cap. "He always said he wanted a coach to race with."

"I don't think that sleeping car is gonna volunteer again," replied C.B., remembering the peeling carriage with the torn red dress and fishnet stockings pulled over her wooden legs. She had been Rusty's partner after the steamer's previous coach had coupled up with Electra the superstar challenger, but the old sleeper would never again see her twentieth birthday — or even her sixtieth, if he had to guess.

Poppa nodded. "She was kind to help, but that electric train winded her when he sent that 'lectricity into them." Anger seeped in his deep voice. "Poor woman's too tired now. Wouldn't be safe."

 _Funny, I'd think she'd be used to staying up all night_ , C.B. almost said, but he stopped himself in time. Instead he said, "Well, if Rusty wants help, you know Uncle C.B. is happy to provide."

The steamer's smile returned. "Thanks, C.B."

The caboose gave him a cheerful thumbs up. The truth was that he did wish Rusty the best. C.B. had been christened the young steamer's godfather when Rusty had been eight days old. Even after the McCoy family had become poverty stricken, the boxcar-turned-caboose had made it a point to send his godson postcards and bring home small gifts from his freight travels. But if the plan he had forming in his brain worked out the way it seemed to… well, it wasn't as if Rusty hadn't gotten used to being the chew toy of Lady Misfortune by now.

 _Nothing personal, kid. I'm doing this for a friend_.

He would have been happy enough to perform the next step without involving the youngster, but as it stood, there was no other way for C.B. to be in the final race unless he was Rusty's partner. Therefore if C.B. were to get what he wanted, Rusty had to be content with being the sacrificial lamb for this evening. A little cruelty was needed if C.B. was to perform the greatest kindness he had to offer another vehicle.

C.B. snapped his fingers, pretending to remember something suddenly. "Ooh, I meant to ask Dinah what I should bring to the victory cookout tomorrow. I should do that before I forget again."

"If you want ideas for what the new champ would like, Rusty liked the cornbread you made last year," Poppa said, pride in his voice.

"I'll keep that in mind," C.B. answered with a convincing laugh.

He gave Poppa and Dustin a parting salute and strolled away back down the ill-lit track. He waited until they were out of sight before he picked up speed, his wheels clicking against the rails. He rolled back toward the area of the yard the arguing trains had occupied moments before; he hoped Dinah was still there.

C.B. instantly recalled the last few seconds he had seen of Dinah — how she had stood in the midst of the other rolling stock, gaping with shock, anger and betrayal as the diesel engine she adored rolled off with a carriage half her age. She deserved so much more than being treated like table scraps that Greaseball tossed to another man.

The red truck silently cursed Greaseball for humiliating Dinah twice in one night. The pretty dining car was one of the few machines the red wagon still felt any sympathy for. She had the kindest and most generous heart of anyone he had ever known.

C.B. had been a caboose for decades before he met Dinah, and despite having a kitchen installed in his cabin, his burnt toast and soupy mac and cheese had been the running joke of the freight depot. However, one day Dinah had tried his attempt at gumbo, but instead of sneering at him like another coach would, she had offered him cooking lessons, and things had started to improve for him. Not only had his culinary skills developed — with her coaching he had actually placed third in the Annual Caboose Chili Cook-Off — but his life benefited from her friendship. He had found he could tolerate the insipid freight trucks and mindless humans of Wilton Yard a lot more when he had her understanding ear and patient smile to vent to.

Unfortunately, Dinah was far too loyal and in love with Greaseball's movie-star grin and bulging muscles to give an old truck made of wood a second glance. Many of their conversations would sooner or later involve Dinah gushing about how wonderful her locomotive was and how lucky a girl like her was to have caught his eye. The only time she did not utterly praise Greaseball was when she winced over the blast of his air horn.

"I know he can't help what the factory gave him, bless his heart," she would laugh, rubbing her ears. "I just wish they had given him something nicer like a steam whistle."

C.B. gave his throat a self-conscious rub, feeling his own whistling apparatus beneath the artificial skin. He had not used it much since cabooses had started using radios to communicate with other vehicles, and its pipes produced notes much higher than a steamer's whistle — nothing anybody would be interested in. However, he did not do this under the delusion that taking out Greaseball would ensure Dinah would notice him: rather he did this in the name of her freedom. He could make sure she was no longer coupled to a man who had never deserved her.

The only real downside was that he would lose Greaseball's influence with Control, which had long helped him survive Wilton Yard's negligent maintenance procedures. However — he reflected with a smirk as he entered an illuminated tunnel — that new guy, Electra, looked pretty rich, able to keep both a repair truck and a money truck in his employ. He might be willing to take over Greaseball's patronage duties and help keep a boxcar-turned-caboose refurbished if said boxcar-turned-caboose helped him win the championship by wiping out the very rusted steamer who almost beat in him heat two.

* * *

He saw her form yards before he exited the tunnel. His track led onto the rim of a low hill, and she stood on level ground just below, bathed in the light of several lamp posts like an angel made of glistening metal and blue tablecloth. Ordinarily he might have been caught off guard by how her brown hair shone or the way the white napkin on her head and her white gloves made her look like a Southern debutante, dainty and refined, but his compassion for her kept his mind focused.

To both his relief and disappointment, she was not alone in her moment of grief. Two feminine figures flanked the blue carriage: Ashley, a varnished smoking car with dark brown hair and a lampshade skirt, and Buffy, a yellow steel buffet car with light brunette hair and a glass display case on her chest. The two coaches seemed to be listening to the dining car huddled between them.

C.B. paused on the top of the hill, wondering how he ought to approach Dinah with her friends nearby — but then Dinah pulled out a napkin and wiped tears from her face. His wheels moved forward automatically, but he stopped just in time to keep himself from rolling into a half-hidden red coach. She sat on the edge of the hill, dangling her wooden legs over the edge.

The carriage turned as he braked. At once C.B. recognized her as that worn-down sleeping car who turned tricks by the fuel dump, the one who Rusty had taken into the second elimination heat. Poppa had taken the sleeper on as one of his charity cases, feeding her food and religion to the point that C.B. wondered if the bedraggled cocotte faked an interest in the steamer's beloved Midnight Train just to get a bowl of hot soup.

"Evening, sailor," said the sleeper pleasantly. She ran a hand over her terra-cotta face before pushing the ponytail of black braids over the black roof of her shoulder. Her name was either Belle or Billie. C.B. could not remember which, but he did not really care at the moment.

"Hey," he said, faking politeness, and glanced again at Dinah. "Guess I'll go the long way around to the ice machine. Over and out."

He did not bother wasting one of his cheerful salutes on the splintering sleeper as he pretended to head back into a tunnel. Once he was sure the red carriage's attention was elsewhere, he made a right turn at the last moment and rolled into the shadows, glad that his red paint no longer had the saturation that drew the eye to his form as it would have had when he originally made the conversion to a caboose.

He followed a line of a truss pillars which supported the mountain tracks above his head, and he managed to find one near the three coaches. He ducked behind it and peeked through the triangular gaps. He could hear Dinah's sobs from this distance, but many were unintelligible. He was almost certain that Dinah said something about being "Yoo-En-See-Oh-Yoo-Pee-Elle-Ee-Dee," but that didn't make any sense.

After a few moments Dinah's sobbing subsided into soft sniffles, and Buffy the buffet car laid a hand on the diner's blue shoulder. The older carriage gave the diner a sympathetic smile.

"Now listen, sugar, if you want him back, you'll never get Greaseball by being passive."

The smoking car nodded on Dinah's other side, extinguishing her cigarette on one of the ash trays that graced her chest.

"No man's gonna be impressed by a girl that acts like there ain't no sun in the sky if he's gone," she said. "Sometimes you gotta play a little hard to get. Show him he ain't the only engine in your life."

C.B. could see Dinah's fair skin blanch. "Oh, but I c-couldn't…" she stammered, but she was interrupted by another voice.

"Preach it."

C.B. and the three carriages turned to see the red sleeper standing a few feet away. Belle-or-Billie had gotten to her wheels and had drawn closer while the younger coaches had been talking.

To C.B.'s surprise Ashley and Buffy both gave the wooden _fille de joie_ a friendly wave. Dinah formed a small smile.

"Hey, Belle. Didn't see you there." She pointed to her own eyes. "Did you lose your dark glasses?"

"They got smudges on them. Gives me a headache until I can clean them," the sleeper replied ruefully. "I saw that you lost something though."

Dinah nodded sadly, sniffing.

"His mistake," Belle insisted. "You're a decent girl, Dinah. Always got a kind word to me. If you want an old woman's thoughts, listen to your gals here." She gave Dinah a tender look. "Men are more fun when you keep 'em waiting all night."

C.B. stiffened at her words. What business did "Belle Watling" have giving a sweet gal like Dinah relationship advice?

Buffy nodded as if the sleeper had spoken Scripture. She winked at Dinah.

"There's gotta be somebody around here who could help you make Greaseball jealous."

Dinah shook her head, backing away. "Who would I even couple with?"

"We could find somebody," Ashley grinned, grabbing Dinah's dainty wrist to keep her in place. "That Electra seemed interested in racing with you."

"You mean, Greaseball took Pearl and tried to dump me on him," said Dinah darkly.

"I didn't hear him say no," replied Ashley.

Buffy nodded. "All the more reason to go. He's a champ, and he'll be on your side in all this."

The red sleeper frowned. "I'm not too fond of Mr. Electra myself," she said, rubbing a spot on her wooden arm that had been scorched by Electra's electricity, "but there's plenty of strapping engines in the yard. You could spend the rest of the evening with one of them. Maybe meet for breakfast in the morning. Then lunch. However long it takes."

Buffy turned to the brunette dining car, her face lighting up with inspiration. "Yeah, if you don't want him, there's all the national champions — at least the ones who are still conscious," she added. "Espresso is single (and a good dancer if I do say so myself). Then there's Weltschaft or Turnov or—"

She didn't finish. A low, but polite, whistle interrupted her, and the vehicles, including C.B., turned to see Rusty standing a few yards off.

The steamer looked like a younger, shorter version of his father, but one could see the lasting influences of his late mother on his russet face, from the small nose to the brown eyes lined with black paint and his black lips. Rusty rolled now in place, pumping his corroded pistons as he watched Dinah with the look of a quiet man wanting to speak his mind but not sure how to proceed. Smoke erupted in nervous puffs from the tiny chimney on the round hat that rested on his cowled head.

He seemed to hesitate under the gazes of the four coaches, but C.B. saw his godson's black lips form a thin line, his tell which said he had finally worked up his courage, and he rolled purposefully toward the blue dining car.

"Hey, Dinah. Ya gotta minute?" he asked, a hopeful look in his brown eyes. Fortunately for C.B. the acoustics of the surrounding hills helped carry Rusty's soft voice.

C.B. realized then he had gripped the truss structure tighter. What was that boy doing?

Dinah gave Rusty a sweeping glance, seeming to guess what he had come to ask.

"Oh, Rusty…" She shook her head.

"Hear me out," he urged, holding up his rough, wheel-topped hands. "You've always been nice to me, and I'm much obliged you took my side against Bobo — and Greaseball and them," he added with a grateful grin. "If you're not busy, well, I don't have a partner, and you don't have a partner…"

He trailed off but gave the dining carriage a hopeful look.

Dinah took a step back, right off her track and onto the ballast. "Oh, Rusty, I don't know."

"Now wait a minute," Belle interrupted, moving to touch Rusty's corroded arm. "I raced with this fine young man in heat two, and I can tell ya he's faster and stronger than he looks."

Her peeling lips formed a warm beam as Rusty looked away modestly. "If it hadn't been for Electra, he woulda made it. I ain't never raced with him before, but he gots good holdings for a coach to grab, and we moved together pretty well as strangers. Imagine what two friends can do."

Dinah bit her lip. "I didn't see heat two," she admitted. "I was… occupied." She rubbed her fair nose, sniffing.

"I saw him," said Ashley, sliding up next to the steamer. "Bobo and me watched the first two races together. Bobo wanted to study the competition for the final, and we both thought that Rusty would have won if Electra hadn't played dirty."

Dinah looked again at Rusty, but C.B. saw her bite her lip. "That might be true, but…"

The smoker's face grew serious. "I coulda sided with Bobo, you know," she told Dinah. "I was his partner, and I could be getting ready for the final race right now — but I chose to help Rusty. Because he deserved his spot in the final after everything he and Poppa did to get there."

Rusty beamed at Ashley before he turned to Dinah. "C.B.'s already offered to help me," he said quietly. "So, it ain't like I'm pressurin' you to race or nothin', but if I had a choice, I'd much rather race with a pretty carriage than a truck, even if he _is_ my godfather." He seemed to realize what he had just called Dinah and looked away. "I mean — well, you know."

"I do, honey," said Dinah, and her face softened. She looked from one coach to the next, who each gave her an encouraging nod, and she finally drew herself up. "Well, then I accept."

"Great! You're the best, Dinah!" Rusty beamed, pumping his pistons like a little engine fresh from the factory.

The two shook hands, albeit more enthusiastically on Rusty's end.

Dinah twirled her brown hair between her gloved fingers. "Just drop me off in the coach yard to freshen up. I'll meet you at the starting gate, honey."

"Sure, I need to refuel anyway," agreed Rusty, and he gestured toward the tender on his back.

Dinah hitched onto his couplings, and the three other coaches linked up behind her. Rusty let out a friendly whistle, causing Dinah to giggle, and the newly formed train chugged away.

* * *

C.B. slowly stepped out from behind the pillar, staring after the vehicles until they disappeared.

"Well," he exhaled to himself, "this could be a problem."

Rusty had been his ticket to the final and luring Greaseball into a false sense of security. Unless Electra decided he wanted to race with a wooden caboose instead of one of the five trucks in his employ, C.B was sidelined. There had to be another way.

 _Think, Brain Box_ , he told himself and began to pace the track. What was the best way to ensure that Dinah did not go with Rusty?

 _But is that much of a problem?_ he asked himself, stroking his mustache.

He tried examining this new situation from different angles. Dinah always had a sympathetic word for Rusty, and the steamer had a good heart. If Poppa could win a race with a hopper and no fire, surely Rusty had an actual chance of beating Greaseball. Dinah's honor would be defended.

 _But what about afterwards?_ C.B. picked up his pacing.

If Rusty lost, Dinah would be humiliated further. If Rusty won, Greaseball would be Wilton Yard's new laughing stock — would he try to win back Dinah? Would Dinah go back to him out of misplaced sympathy? Option C was Dinah would realize she could do better than her diesel boyfriend, and her attention would turn to a more fitting male specimen. As the coach of yet another champion, she would be attending photo shoots and T.V. interviews with her new partner — and Dinah would probably be spending a lot more time with Rusty McCoy.

Rusty, C.B.'s only godson. Rusty, an engine with a golden heart. Rusty, an engine decades younger than the wooden caboose and probably wouldn't look too bad to a carriage once his rust was removed. Rusty, an engine who could whistle.

 _Greaseball won't like that either_.

All at once inspiration struck like lightning, and a snicker stole out of him. Oh, this was gonna be fun.

He spun, heading toward the motive power depot where Greaseball would no doubt be refueling, but then he remembered he had one more part of his plan which still needed attending.

He cheerfully tapped the button on his right earpiece which activated his radio. "Breaker, breaker. C.B. to Electra. Breaker, breaker, one niner. C.B. the red caboose to Electra. Over."

Silence met him for several moments before an annoyed male voice replied: "What do you want, caboose?"

C.B. made sure that his smile could be heard in his voice. "Hey there, Mr. Electra. You busy? I got something you might want to hear about the final race. Over."

* * *

He found Greaseball refueling at a pump reserved for himself as the only diesel engine in the entire race. The muscular locomotive leaned against a nearby light pole, flipping through a magazine about bodybuilding, while the nozzle hung lazily from the cavity in his gray chest. C.B. saw one hand held a small comb, which Greaseball never left home without else his greased black hair get a strand out of place. Since the racing celebrity always found opportunities to impress local coaches and truck women with his impeccable speed and skate stunts, the comb could get a lot of mileage in a single evening.

Some switch engines working as security guards maintained a perimeter, keeping a crowd of babbling rolling stock with cameras from approaching. The champion's pack of diesel admirers who he had taken on as a pit crew littered the area, lounging or pitching rocks against the nearby building. C.B. noticed that Greaseball's pretty pink partner, Pearl, was absent from the pre-race festivities.

The diesel engine looked up from his magazine to blow a kiss at a shrieking coach held back by the switcher guard, and his eyes fell upon the approaching caboose. Immediately, a grin split his tan face.

"Hey, C.B. What are you up to?"

C.B. winked. "Helping my godson become the next champion. What else would little ol' me be doing?"

Greaseball returned the wink. "You're Guardian of the Year, Ceeb."

C.B. held up a canteen which he had retrieved from his shed.

"So, Control hasn't gotten the water tower fixed, so Rusty needs me to fill this up for the race. Can you give an old brain box a lift to the creek?" He winked again. "Hope the water agrees with Rusty's tank, the poor boy."

Greaseball predictably snickered. "Sure, Pearly is dolling herself up for me right now, so I got time," he said smugly.

C.B. hid the clench of his jaw with a sly look at the engine. "You diesel dog."

Greaseball returned the nozzle to the pump, giving a departing wave to his crowd. His gang began to get to their wheels to follow him, but he lazily signaled that they should stay put. C.B. grabbed his belt with one hand, tucking the canteen under his right arm.

Before he skated off, Greaseball gave the red truck a mischievous smirk. "I'm curious, Ceeb. If cabooses are called 'brain boxes,' what were you called when you were a boxcar?"

"A model citizen."

Greaseball laughed and pulled him down the line, soon taking the quiet track that led to the creek.

C.B. knew he was cutting it close. Electra would be showing up at the creek himself in a few minutes, using the electric lines on the west bank while Greaseball pulled the caboose on the unpowered track toward the east bank, but C.B. considered himself a resourceful van, preferring to use one stone on two birds. Besides, there was something delicious in knowing that Greaseball was pulling him to the meeting which would help spell the diesel's end.

The next step was to sic a jealous Greaseball on an unsuspecting Rusty. Although Greaseball had been the one to suggest that Electra take Dinah, it had been part of a humiliation tactic while Greaseball stole Pearl from the electric locomotive. Greaseball no doubt knew Dinah would not be interested in the superstar romantically — but how would Greaseball feel about his abandoned carriage actually getting cozy with another man?

The creek had come in sight when a cackle erupted in his earpiece.

"C.B., are you there?"

He pushed the button on his right ear. "Go, breaker."

"Whatever that means," Electra replied dryly. "I'll be there in three minutes. This better be worth my time, caboose."

"Okay, I copy. I read you," he replied cheerfully, releasing the button.

Greaseball sharply looked over his shoulder. "Who you talkin' to at this time of night?" he frowned.

C.B.'s stomach clenched momentarily, but he decided it would be more fun to tell Greaseball the truth.

"It's Electra," he said matter-of-factly as if he had nothing to hide.

Greaseball's legs stopped skating, and he coasted as he glared back at the caboose. "Oh, yeah? What you got going there?"

The truck shrugged. "He gave me a call. I talk to them all." He then gave a conspiratory wink. "That's why so many trains trust me, G.B."

Greaseball did not look convinced. He braked just yards from the trestle that stretched over the lazy water. C.B. released his belt as the engine rounded on him.

"Just don't forget all the stuff I've done for you, Ceeb. You would have a lot more wrinkles if I didn't put in a good word with Control about your repair shop bills."

C.B. opened his mouth in feigned shock, laying his hands over his heart. "I may be a number of things, but do you think 'stupid' is one of them?" he asked, pretending to be hurt. "Have you even done anything tonight that would make me turn on you?"

Greaseball visibly relaxed — the fool. "You're right about that, C.B."

"Electra might not come anyway," C.B. said, continuing with his act. "From what I heard, he's frantic looking for a new partner now that Dinah gots herself another engine to pull her in the final."

Greaseball's eyes narrowed. "What."

C.B. threw up his hands, shaking his head as if he did not understand women.

"Well, I guess she didn't like you and Electra playing Musical Partners, so she hitched herself to the other guy who's in the final."

The diesel's jaw tightened. "Rusty."

"Got it in one," C.B. answered, hiding the triumphant satisfaction which coursed through him.

He leaned back, casually folding his arms. "You know, it's just as well you're over Dinah and got yourself Pearl now. I never thought Pearl meshed well with my godson. She looks better on your arm while Dinah fits so well with Rusty. They used to be such good friends before you two started dating," the caboose lied, trying not to snort. "We all thought they'd get hitched before you swooped in and snatched her up. Now that you've lost interest in her, maybe Rusty thinks he gots another shot."

Greaseball's eyes flashed. "Oh, really?" He leaned forward, giving C.B. a shark-like smile. "That's mighty interesting."

C.B. gulped and clutched the canteen tighter, pretending to be intimidated. "But don't listen to an old truck's gossip, pal." He looked over both shoulders at their dark surroundings and leaned forward, placing his hand against his mouth like a little train whispering a secret. "He's by the coal station last I heard. Probably alone."

Greaseball gave a satisfied nod. "Thanks, C.B." He started to push his way around the caboose, heading back down the track they had come, but then he stopped and pointed a finger at the older man's face. "Just remember whose side you are on."

C.B. nodded.

Greaseball spun and took off into the night.

"I'm on mine," the red truck snickered quietly.

Barely a second after Greaseball disappeared around a bend did a flash of red light illuminate his surroundings, coming from the opposite direction. The caboose turned his head to see a tall electric engine rolling toward the creek, hauling the five cars of his superstar entourage.

C.B. discarded the canteen in the nearby bushes and turned on his brightest smile. His plan was coming together nicely.

* * *

C.B. dutifully headed toward the coal tower, grinning. Electra had left the impromptu interview impressed. Oh, maybe C.B. had bent the truth about his exploits, but fortunately it seemed the Engine of the Future hadn't cracked open a history book lately.

" _Stab you in the back, back, back, back. Ain't safe on the track, track, track, track. Little red caboose behind the train,_ " he hummed quietly to himself before his ears picked up the sound of clanking metal. He picked up his pace, and the clamoring grew steadily louder, and he soon heard injured cries amidst the cacophony. C.B. bit back a giggle.

He came to the edge of a turn which looped around a grassy hill, and he peeked around a cluster of pine trees, satisfied with what he saw.

The concrete coal dispenser with four pillars straddled a siding track — and Greaseball had Rusty pinned by the throat against one of them. The other fist steadily hammered into the rusted torso, denting the smokebox door on Rusty's chest and every other inch it came into contact. Rusty could do more than try to struggle with Greaseball's hand on his neck even as he cried out in pain.

Show time.

C.B. quickly caused his radio to emit beeps, and he rolled forward with a look of outrage.

"Break it up! Break it up!" he yelled. "Or I'll tell Control!"

Greaseball barely looked at the caboose. "I was finished here anyway." He shoved Rusty against the tower, releasing him in the process, and the steamer slumped against the concrete pillar. Greaseball pointed at his sooty face. "You better have a new partner the next time I see you," he growled before he took off, pushing past C.B.

C.B. braked beside Rusty and dropped to one knee, laying a hand on the boy's tarnished iron shoulder. "What did he mean by that?" he asked quietly, feigning ignorance. "I thought he was okay with me racing with you."

Rusty clutched his stomach, not looking at C.B. "I kinda asked Dinah if she wanted to race," he said through his teeth.

C.B. raised his eyebrows. "Why? Ain't she going with Electra?"

Rusty shrugged, wincing. "I just wanted to be nice… But then Greaseball found out somehow." His jaw tightened. "Why does he care when he has Pearl?" he asked bitterly, and his chimney puffed a dark cloud.

C.B. patted his shoulder, turning his head to avoid the smoke. "A man acts funny when it comes to a woman he loves."

"If you can call _that_ love," Rusty grumbled, still rubbing his stomach. "Dinah can do better."

"Maybe someday she will," the caboose agreed.

For a brief moment, C.B. remembered another time when he had seen Rusty doubled with pain: the afternoon he had found the little engine weeping beneath a bridge because the bigger steam boys at school had punched him. That time the wooden truck had taken the sooty iron hand and had led him to the nearby diner for two scoops of peppermint ice cream and a long comforting talk, man to man.

But that was then. This was now.

C.B. looked down at Rusty and formed a sympathetic expression. "Well, you still got a spot in the final," he said gently. "I might not be a fancy coach, but I got your back, pal."

Rusty's brown eyes rose, and C.B. recalled how carefully Vanessa McCoy had drawn the black lines around them mere hours before the proud parents had lit his first fire to bring him to life — a memory which he quickly pushed down.

Finally, Rusty nodded. "Yeah, I think that'll work." He held out his fist. "Thanks, C.B. I really need somebody on my side in all this."

C.B. bumped his knuckles. "Always, kid."

He helped Rusty to his wheels and held back a snicker. It was too easy.

THE END

* * *

A/N:

In some videos of "Mein Spiel", you can see Red Caboose hiding behind one of the viaduct pillars when Purse shows up to invite Dinah to race with Electra, implying that he may have been spying on Dinah during this section. (They even put a soft spotlight on him.) I considered basing this fic on the Bochum show, but I wanted to include Belle, so I put it in the original London setting (albeit this is a real-train AU, not a toy story). The Rusty inclusion came about from a discussion I had with HopperUK about what changes we'd make to the plot of the show. My idea was to have Rusty be more active during Act 2, rather than being overshadowed by side characters, and one method was to have Rusty be more involved in Dinah's subplot. (Their respective love interests are racing with each other. They have something to bond over.)

At this point in time, there is no known footage of the original Heat Two, when Rusty and Belle raced against Electra and Pearl. I'd like to think that Rusty did well, and then Electra had to cheat in order to win against him, and this is why Electra is afraid of/adamant against Rusty being in the final. (Why would he argue that "Pearl and me would never be seen racing against yesterday's machine" when they already had?) Then again, I wouldn't be surprised if the actual canon is nothing like how I imagined it. I used to imagine that in the "C.B." song Greaseball surprises C.B. while he's talking to Electra, but it turns out that in a 1988 video Greaseball was pulling C.B. along the whole time! (In which case, if a video of the original Heat Two turns up that contradicts this fic, that's okay because this is already an AU thanks to Rusty's involvement.)

Misc: the "Belle-or-Billie" bit was inspired by a BSC book where Logan shares his first day of school and how he met a girl he referred to as "Stacey or Tracey." The line about Belle never seeing her 20th or 60th birthdays again was inspired by a line in The Princess Bride when Buttercup's narrative describes the Count's wife.


End file.
